Animula Series
by Wondo
Summary: Based on the AU slavefic world of "Animula." Neal finds himself the owner of an Animula named Peter. He now struggles with the harsh reality of slavery.
1. Now We Cooking With Gas

A/N: This is an auxiliary chapter to Tigeress79's fascinating story, "Animula": s/11291157/1/Animula

Thanks to Tigress79 for being my Beta.

It's important to understand the plot before reading my chapter. Animula is an AU slavefic where men diagnosed with the "animula gene" are enslaved by society. They are identified by the development of metallic gold rings that form around their irises. Tigress79's story opens with Neal winning ownership of Peter during a high stakes gambling competition. Suddenly Neal finds himself with the responsibility of a man's life and future in his hands. In this "flashback chapter", El has been given custody of the new business commodity – Peter. They've fallen in love and struggle to enjoy a brief moment of happiness before Peter is passed on to his next owner.

Now We're Cooking with Gas!

Reading out of one of Elizabeth's well-worn cookbooks and juggling assorted spices was proving to be a slightly daunting task for Peter. Leaning against a kitchen counter, awash in dirty dishes, cooking utensils, and multiple food ingredients, he struggled to gather and tie off sprigs of fresh rosemary and thyme. A large piece of beef previously patted dry, saturated with salt and pepper, dredged in flour, and seared in olive oil was resting on the cutting board. The Dutch oven, perched on the stovetop behind the engrossed chef, held simmering carrots, onions, leeks and garlic.

Biting his tongue, Peter smiled. The prospect of surprising his love with a home cooked meal brought delight. _His love._ He still couldn't quite comprehend an unfathomable spell of good fortune. Inside Elizabeth's apartment, doors closed and locked, a tantalizing oasis of equality existed for Peter. No requirement to safeguard his emotions; no fear an inadvertent slip of protocol would result in physical punishment.

Alone with only each other, Peter and El enjoyed a freedom they could not experience in the outside world. Wearing her number of ownership tattooed prominently on his forearm, Peter reveled in the knowledge that she belonged to him as much as he was her legal possession.

He was an Animula sharing a life with a desirable and beautiful woman. Disregarding society's harsh taboos, she had chosen a pariah when she had every opportunity to select an attractive, decent, and well-connected human male. He shook his head silently.

Elizabeth was spending this moment of time with him. Fearing the consequences of their union, Peter still could not… would not question her dangerous decision. Treasuring each moment of time spent together, he had begun safeguarding his memories for the short lifetime left allotted to him.

Peter sat down on one of the kitchen stools and trained his gaze on the cluttered counter. Aside from scrambled eggs or slightly burned toast, Peter hadn't tried to woo El with non-existent cooking skills. Animula usually had meals provided to them. Unless being punished with limited sustenance for some arbitrary infraction, they were given food chosen solely on the whim of master, supervisor or guardian. Serving to financially enhance whatever corporation or individual they belonged to, it was not considered necessary to teach culinary skills or basic household tasks. Peter's sole duty was to provide business expertise and loyalty to his master.

During their past months together, Peter and Elizabeth had enjoyed spending time in the preparation of meals. Peter's task had been mainly companionship, menu selection and cleanup duty. Now he wanted to offer her something more. On the rare occasions he hadn't accompanied her to work, he had been covertly reading and dabbling in culinary experiments.

When Elizabeth regretfully confided she had to attend a Saturday afternoon mandatory business meeting, he kissed her goodbye, walked her to the doorway, and then raced off to the kitchen for cookbook reconnaissance. He knew she had recently bought all the necessities for a few future meals; he was determined to offer one up upon her return from work.

Taking a final sip of his coffee, he stood and located the tomatoes, chicken stock, salt and pepper. He quickly added them to the pot along with the meat, two cups of wine and his secret component. He stopped, inhaled the aroma, and addressed the Dutch oven.

"There it is," he muttered, "the piece de resistance."

Lifting his chin defiantly, Peter grabbed a bottle of brandy and liberally doused the pot.

Reading the final instructions, _Put roast in pot, bring to boil and cover. Place in over for 2 ½ hours until fork tender, lower heat and keep sauce at simmer,_ he set the temperature at 350 degrees, and waited for the moment to place the pot in the oven.

Voila, he had future success at his fingertips. Now all he had to do was remember to lower the temperature and ensure the sauce would continue to simmer. Julia Child had nothing over him.

He would even have ample time to relax after a hasty but thorough cleanup. Maybe he would indulge in a beer from the fridge or turn on the baseball game. Only Elizabeth had been trusted with his sports story. Jensen, caretaker of an early owner's estate, had provided a rare touch of normality to his adolescence, sparking an appreciation for baseball, creating a sliver of sunshine in a hostile world.

Peter reached for a towel and squirted some dish soap on it. Glancing around the kitchen, he sighed with happiness and got to work.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Seated on the comfortable couch in the condo's small living room, Peter finally heard the sound he had been expecting. Elizabeth's key rattled in the lock.

 _At last_ , he thought, _she's home_. Rushing to the door he moved forward to intercept her entry. After waiting what seemed an interminable time, after the Yankee game ended, Peter had alternated between keeping vigil of the simmering sauce and leafing haphazardly through several science and business periodicals.

Elizabeth opened the front door. "I'm home. Sorry, I'm so─"

El's explanation and apology was cut short by Peter's exuberant hug and lengthy kiss.

"Wow, hon. I should be this late more often."

Her bright smile instantly vanished as she took quick note of Peter's nervousness. Familiar with his moods and mannerisms, she pushed away as she felt an icy rush of fear travel up her back.

"Peter… is something wrong? What happened? Did someone come by while I was gone?"

Words poured out in a torrent as Peter began to shake his head, reaching out to gather her back in a comforting embrace.

Elizabeth looked nervously around the entryway and living room, half expecting Renner or one of his ghoulish associates to pop out from behind the furniture.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, El." Peter looked stricken with remorse.

As her panic began to abate, the aroma of home cooking reached her nose.

"You did frighten me. What are you cooking?" she responded with a puzzled smile.

Peter took her arm, leading her to the kitchen and gesturing to one of the kitchen stools. "Sit down, El. I have a surprise."

Elizabeth hesitated, looked puzzled and took a seat.

"Hon," Peter declared, "I made dinner for you."

She glanced around the clean kitchen, devoid of dirty dishes and didn't answer.

"It's what you smell cooking," said Peter smugly. "My world famous pot roast."

Elizabeth blinked, looking up at her lover. "World famous?"

"Well, it would be if given a chance. Here take a look." Peter stepped around her and opened the oven door. An even stronger aroma of delicious, simmering pot roast wafted into the air.

Getting up from the bar stool, the petite brunette bent down and peered into the oven. Peter hovered nervously by her side.

"You told me you didn't know how to cook," she teased. "This looks absolutely delicious."

"The last few weeks, I've been conducting clandestine research into the culinary arts, searching for a dish that might offer success… to this layman."

"Oh, Peter," she whispered.

"Some of your cooking books suggested pot roast. I've been experimenting with different sauce ingredients and settled on today's dish."

Peter paused. "I hope you like it."

"Of course, I'll like it. I can't imagine that I wouldn't love anything you made me." She bit her lip, continuing, "But honey, where are all the dirty dishes?"

The kitchen was spotless. She was familiar with his one previous attempt to make burnt eggs and toast for breakfast. The counter had been laden with cluttered pans.

"Ah… I already did the first cleanup, El. I didn't want you walking into a mess." He rubbed his temple. "There, there was quite a jumble of pots and pans. You have no idea …" he trailed off, sheepish look upon his face.

Elizabeth shook her head, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tight. Her gaze took in the dining room table set for two, lovingly arranged with china, crystal, napkins and candles. All waiting for her arrival home. Even a wine bottle rested in a bucket of ice water.

"I love you," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "I love you."

Peter stared wordlessly at her. He hated to see El cry.

"You're not upset?"

"Upset? Why would I be upset?"

"Well, you're crying and I didn't ask permission to cook. I know you like order in your kitchen. You know, 'A place for everything; everything in its place.'"

"My kitchen? It's _your_ kitchen, too! You remember that, Mister." Elizabeth reached up and lightly touched the side of his nose. "You plan this surprise for weeks, set the table, cook me dinner and think I'd be upset? I'm in heaven."

It hurt Elizabeth to realize how much Peter's dependence on her disturbed him. As Animula and slave, he had never been given payment for his years of labor. Money had never been allowed to touch his hands. Most establishments wouldn't allow him to enter their place of business, never mind offer him the ability to make purchases. Society enforced the laws that left him defenseless, unable to secure his own survival. Peter's existence depended upon the good will of his owner. All she possessed, even the money given her for his company employment, he deemed solely hers no matter how much she argued the contrary. Learning to cook was an attempt to surprise her with a personal gift.

Peter put his arm around Ellizabeth's waist, leading her toward the table. "Come on, sit down and I'll serve you dinner. I want this night to be special."

Pouring wine into two glasses, handing her one, they made just the slightest movement, their private ritual of a silent toast to each other.

Later that night, Peter pulled El toward him. Then he made love to her so tenderly and lovingly, that afterward in the quiet of the evening, she again felt tears sliding down her cheeks. She vowed she would do everything she could to keep him safe from the society that deemed him inferior.


	2. I'll Give You a Daisy a Day

Second installment based on Tigeress79's Animula world.

A/N: At this point in the storyline Elizabeth has purchased Peter from Renner's Corporation. They both understand that their happiness and Peter's welfare rests upon a razor's edge.

I'll Give You a Daisy a Day

Folding the reusable grocery bag, Peter left Elizabeth's apartment building and walked two miles, past neighborhood coffee shops, fruit stalls and business establishments. As he approached the abandoned one-half acre site where a factory once stood, his apprehension increased two-fold.

With Elizabeth's standard permission note in his pocket, he was relatively safe from legal persecution, but there were always gangs of riffraff that might find it amusing to make sport of an unescorted Animula. Although feared and shunned by most humans, he was vulnerable to the violent fringe of Manhattan. No one would offer protection to a pariah. It was safer to be off the streets but, on the other hand, Peter never had chosen the safe path.

Attacked and thrashed in the past, Peter adamantly refused to accept the alternative. Hiding from a society that deemed him inferior was not an option. It frightened and pained El, each time she discovered he had gone out alone to travel the streets of NYC, but she understood his need for a modicum of independence.

Elizabeth's love and admiration, for him as a man, prodded Peter past the rusty, broken chain-linked fence bordering the front of the empty property, into the garbage-strewn, dirt-filled vacant lot. Flagging his attention on past neighborhood walks with Elizabeth, the isolated wildflowers bloomed in the rocky terrain.

Reading up on the phenomena, Peter surmised the lot had been earmarked for a flower farm some idealist had failed to turn into a vibrant green space. With the success of consumers buying locally produced food, many New Yorkers were attempting to set a trend for locally grown flowers. Instead of taking on the expense of growing large flower farms, they planted wherever they could, be it vacant lots, backyards, or unused soil. Emerging green organizations encouraged people to turn neighborhood lots into community gardens, composting sites and even small parks.

Centuries prior, Manhattan had become an urban jungle. A safe haven for flowers and Animula did not exist. The reason for animula enslavement and the disappearance of native plant species had the same causal factor - humans. Failing to recognize the impoverishment of their world, Peter had no hope he would live to see a change. The burst of color, however, amid a gray concrete landscape had briefly captivated him. He would be happy to offer a temporary haven for the few floral remnants languishing in the dirt.

Minute particles of organic material, remains of discarded food items of coffee grounds, vegetable peels and similar plant fertilizer, laid scattered under his feet. The animula wondered what happened to cause the dreamers to abandon their project. Discovered using the property without permission and been told to leave or had they just became tired of manual labor? No matter, their handiwork had allowed a small group of flowers to continue to flourish. Mostly covered by trash and weeds, the captivating colors peeked out in vibrant shades.

Peter wanted to purchase a gift for the love of his life. Slavery's decrees had relegated his options to words of endearment, household chores and a now growing list of home-cooked meals. Intent on circumventing the box holding him captive, he was determined to find Elizabeth a delightful surprise; one that would appeal to her feminine nature. Once his eyes caught hold of the flowers he knew what he had to do.

Peter was on a mission; a dangerous mission to be sure but one he had no intention of failing. The stage was set for action.

It was dusk when Peter verified the neighborhood street was relatively empty. Quickly wandering through the abandoned site, staying low to the ground, he alternated between casting vigilant glances at the sidewalk and snatching up stems of flowers. Careful to not bruise any of the delicate petals, he placed them gently and neatly in his bag.

The small mixtures of flowers seemed to begin whimsically calling his name. He chuckled to himself.

 _What kind would El like?_

Amid the surprisingly small area, he noted assorted varieties of butterfly weed, daisies, buttercups, Black-eyed Susans, mountain laurel, and ferns. Caressing some of the buds with his fingers, they reminded him of Elizabeth; gentle yet strong and beautiful to behold.

 _Is this what a human experiences when they purchase a gift?_

It was a heady sentiment. A smile again crossed Peter's lips; he realized he liked the emotion and slowly relaxed his vigil.

Within minutes his eye caught on something-not an image but a moving shadow.

 _Is someone watching me?_

Snapped out of his reverie, Peter turned instantaneously. Gaze fastened on the line of the fence, he saw a man in the shadows eying him from the sidewalk. He slowly stood up, stretching and straightening his sagging shoulders. In a tense pose, feigning nonchalance, Peter placed the last of the flowers in his sack. Reminding himself no one at this distance could possibly note his golden irises, he carefully turned his face to the side preparing to slip out of the vacant lot.

 _Be careful,_ he cautioned himself, _just step out beyond the fence and walk away._

Peter hadn't come this far to place El in jeopardy or be thrown back in the Market. He had read the laws safeguarding native flora and rare plants. He knew there was an Endangered Species Act for flora and animals but, of course, none for his kind.

Was this shadowy figure some green-growing Nazi or just a nosy citizen? Steeling his nerves, Peter edged ever so silently as far away from the gawker as possible and cleared the fence line.

"Them flowers sure are pretty," said the man.

Keeping his head down, Peter nodded slightly, noting the age and attire of the individual; fifty-something, soiled and odorous. Briskly walking away, praying for the best, he expected a hue and cry to begin at any moment.

No alarm was raised.

With the grocery sack tightly clutched in his left hand, Peter turned the corner and began running. A few blocks away from the lot he paused, slowing down to a safer stride. The fates were against him today. Scarcely had he turned the second corner, when he saw a New York City policeman crossing the street ahead of him.

Ducking into a deserted storefront, fearing confrontation, he leaned back against the wall. The law officer continued on his way, passing by him on the opposite side of the street. Whistling a loud tune, without noticing the Animula, the man swung a sheet of papers in his hand.

Peter panted from exhaustion and trepidation. Looking down at the bag, his mouth twisted into a frown, his hands still trembling. For a brief moment he felt an irrational and unfamiliar sense of personal accomplishment. It had been a foolhardy escapade but he did it. He had a flower arrangement for his girl; a beautiful gift from his own hands, not purchased with someone else's money.

Elizabeth was waiting, at the apartment building entryway, by the time he arrived back home.

"Hon. It's getting late." Elizabeth declared sharply, a hint of fear creeping in her voice.

Peter failed to reply, maneuvering the grocery bag behind his back.

"I wasn't sure when you'd be back," she added, modifying her tone and stumbling over her words. "Are you hungry? It's dinner time."

"You were worried."

"You think?"

"I'm sorry, El. You know I hate to upset you."

She sighed and reached for his left hand. "Come on. Let's go upstairs and have dinner. I made your favorite meal."

"Wait. I have something for you."

Spying the bag peeking out behind his back, El blinked, bewilderment evident.

"Did you go shopping?" she asked in disbelief. She recognized how improbable and dangerous that was.

"No, I wasn't shopping. It's a surprise."

Peter pulled her up the stairs and into their apartment. When he raised his eyes, he gave her that grin that thrilled her. El wished he would smile like that more often because his golden eyes shown with excitement, giving him a carefree boyish look, erasing the pain that often lingered there.

He turned his back, fumbling with the grocery sack. Turning around, Peter displayed a bouquet of slightly crushed wild flowers in his hands.

"These are for you, hon. I picked them in a vacant lot," Peter added, keeping the harrowing details to himself.

El was momentarily speechless.

"Let me go get a vase."

Elizabeth watched Peter rush into the kitchen and place the flowers in one of her ornate glass containers. Carrying them proudly back into the living room, his nervousness over her lack of reaction to his gift, becoming more evident.

"They remind me of you," he said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. Quoting from Dior, Peter continued, "'After women, flowers are the most lovely thing God has given the world.'"

"These are beautiful, Peter. Thank you." The gentleness in her voice threatened to undo him.

"You like them? You're surprised?"

"I'm surprised," El answered, shaking her head and smiling, reaching for the flowers. She hid her fear and anger, knowing he put himself in danger over wildflowers. Wildflowers! She didn't say anything to destroy his moment. El understood what it meant to him.

"And I love them. But Peter, you have to know…my greatest gift is having you in my life. That's all I ever want."

Peter cupped her chin and tilted her head toward his.

"I love you Elizabeth Mitchell," he whispered.


	3. Life Is a Highway

Third in the "Animula" Series. Story Based on Tigeress79's slavefic world.

A/N: Peter has spent four years of his life with Elizabeth: two years working by her side and two years as her legal property and unsanctioned spouse. Story takes place shortly after Elizabeth rescues Peter from being traded off by Renner's corporation.

Life Is a Highway

Elizabeth turned on the engine of her black Taurus. Leaning back in the seat, clipping on her seatbelt, she smiled at her traveling companion, seated on the passenger seat, looking intently out the window.

"Ready for our new adventure, Peter?"

"I am, hon." Peter nodded in agreement, seemingly pleased and excited, hiding inner trepidation with a bright smile. "And so is Satchmo."

Tail wagging, the big lab sat quietly in the back seat, mouth open and tongue hanging out. Sniffing the air, face pressed to the open portion of the window, he gave them a look that seemed to ask, "Where are we going?"

"Good thing you booked a pet-friendly remote cabin in the woods. He's looking forward to some long hikes, off leash."

"Although this is officially our honeymoon," answered Elizabeth, "we certainly had to include the other member of our family."

Freed from Renner's escalating abuse, the promise of a new life hovering in the future, Peter had gathered up his courage and asked Elizabeth to marry him. Unsanctioned by society, legally invalid and prohibited by law, Peter and Elizabeth had quietly enacted a personal wedding ceremony, professing permanent vows, reveling in their secret status.

Within days of Elizabeth buying out his contract from Andrews Group, Inc., the couple was off on a mid-week, two night cabin retreat in upstate New York. Peter had never been outside the city; his entire life being spent within the metropolitan area. Although exhilarated and curious to see the countryside, he couldn't let go of his concern over what public reaction he'd receive beyond the confines of a large city. Hatred, hostility, persecution and, even more so, the inability to protect his 'wife' from harm haunted his dreams.

Elizabeth had assured him their rental unit was deep in the woods on almost 20 private acres, in the western Finger Lakes region, close to Rochester. They would be secluded; the two nearest cabins not even in sight of them. In the winter months you needed a four wheel drive vehicle to travel to the cabin rife with hills. Right now with the fall leaves off the trees, tourist traffic had dropped off, leaving a promised oasis of peace and solitude.

Very early in the morning, they headed out of Manhattan, leaving the city with its skyscrapers, famous landmarks and densely populated boroughs behind them. It would be hours before they reached their final destination near Bristol Mountain.

"Taking the back roads will add more miles to our travels," Peter said as he leaned over and kissed his wife on her cheek.

"Are you in a hurry?" Elizabeth teased, smiling.

"Not at all." Peter traced the side of her face and jawline.

"And…don't distract the driver."

The newlywed sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'll just sit here and watch a beautiful woman be my chauffeur, enjoying the fascinating scenery pass by."

"Don't get too comfortable, hon. I plan on having you take over the driving in a couple of hours."

Peter straightened up. "El, I don't have a license. I never had the opportunity to learn to drive. I know some Animula are trained as chauffeurs but not me."

"Honey, I've seen how you watch me drive. I know you'd like to get behind the wheel. You've just never mentioned it." El paused. "Once we're on the backroads you'll have your opportunity. Go for it," she prodded.

Peter hesitated, thinking it over. His eyes were full of mischief but he felt uneasy and mildly agitated.

Elizabeth let him be, stealing a cautious, sideways glance.

Dismissing his symptoms as irrational, Peter pushed them aside and forced himself to relax. He narrowed his eyes in thought, turning his head to the right and staring out the window.

"Okay." Peter cleared his throat. "Ah… is your car insurance paid up?"

She reached over and landed a strong smack on the shoulder. "I added more coverage just before we left."

Peter laughed. "Smart woman."

They looked at each other and smiled.

The day turned out to be exquisite as only a fall day in the mountains can be. Sunny skies and cool temperatures seemed to forecast a delightful vacation. The landscape began to open up to horse country, dairy farms, and large tracts of undeveloped land.

The further away the car traveled, the more Peter began experiencing mild sweating and occasional shortness of breath. Chalking it up to the excitement of escaping the city, he concentrated on breathing slowly and easily from the diaphragm.

A few hours later, the couple stopped at a small rural ice cream stand. While Peter insisted on remaining in the car, not tempting fate he told Elizabeth, she ordered and brought back two enormous waffle cones. Pistachio with chocolate sprinkles was the treat for Peter; plain butter pecan for her. Forestalling a dog assault, Peter quickly pulled out some dog treats and tossed them into the back seat for Satchmo.

The couple sat side by side, in silence, enjoying their ice cream. Peter finished his in remarkable time, licking the last glob before it flowed off the edge of the cone.

"Peter, you could take time to enjoy the flavor. Why are you gobbling it down?"

"Hey," he said, grinning and threatening to lick her cone too, "my advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream…while it's in your cone." He reached for her treat, as she pulled away. "That's my philosophy ───paraphrasing Thornton Wilde, of course."

Elizabeth stopped with cone halfway to her mouth.

"You want some of mine?" she asked with a sudden sweetness in her voice. Seeing the smile on her face, he nodded. Blue eyes flashed. "Come any closer to my treat and you'll regret it," she warned, her voice turning steely.

Peter laughed, scrambling to the far side of the door.

Several miles down the country route, the quiet roadway offered Peter an opportunity to try his hand at driving.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" El remarked to Peter, as he drove past one country lane after another looking for mailbox number 43. "I'm happy we chose the rental in the brochure that's separate from the rest. Betty, from the travel bureau, mentioned it's pretty deserted during weekdays, especially at this time of the year. We'll be all by ourselves, as newlyweds should be."

Peter smiled, inwardly touched that El was trying to make him more comfortable.

Entering the area around Bristol Mountain, they saw a long dirt driveway looming on the left side of the road. A red mailbox with the prominent number 43 stood at the entryway.

"That's it. Turn here, Peter."

Several hundred feet passed before they saw the quaint A-frame cabin with covered porch. The small home, surrounded by fruit trees, boasted an outdoor fire pit and huge yard. There was a nature trail winding past huge trees seemingly calling out for a daily hike.

"Oh Peter, it's perfect." El bit her lip, as she looked over the property.

Peter pulled off to the side and cut the motor. For a moment, he was speechless. The view of the property with flowering fall perennials was breathtaking. Pushing aside some mild misgivings, he quickly lifted her hands to his lips and kissed her fingers.

"Thank you."

She glanced at Peter. "I take it, sir, you like our honeymoon setting?"

She was rewarded with a flash of one of his rare smiles, the full one that filled his eyes with happiness.

"I love you, El."

"I love you too," she replied. "You know you swept me off my feet when I wasn't looking."

Peter reached over and squeezed her hand. "Regrets?"

She shook her head. "Never. You're stuck with me, Mister."

Peter jumped out of the vehicle, opened her car door and helped his wife out. Turning to the rear door, he freed Satchmo who bounded off to stretch his legs and take care of business.

Peter looped his arm through Elizabeth's and walked her up to the front door. "I'll get the groceries in a minute. Let's look inside."

"Tell me something?" Elizabeth asked, her voice gentle and soft. "What made you propose? I was worried you'd decide the circumstances were too dire."

"Sometimes… when the best thing arrives into your life, it's up to you to grab hold of it and not let go. I'm so thankful I did. May heaven help us, El, but I can't let you go. I…I just can't."

"You'll never have to, Peter. Nothing will ever permanently separate us."

Walking into the inviting entry, they viewed a room with knotty pine look and lots of large windows. It was large enough to contain a cozy living area and small kitchen with enough supplies to enhance the groceries they brought along for cooking. The inside boasted an open, airy feeling due to the high vaulted ceiling above. Off the side of the room, one separate small sleeping area fitted a queen sized bed and contained an adjoining bathroom.

Later that evening, Elizabeth and Peter were settled in front of the fireplace, snuggling on the couch, a soft afghan covering them both. Having explored the outside, scouted out trails for tomorrow's hike, and enjoyed a quick meal, they sat together quietly listening to music.

"Peter?"

He looked over at her and then looked away.

"What's bothering you? You've been unsettled since our hike."

"You can always see right through me," he answered. Dropping his head, he stared down at the floor before continuing. "El. The day has been perfect. The car ride, this cabin, the trail…it's been peaceful, open and devoid of people, but all day I've struggled with anxiety, feeling we're open to attack. Right now my heart's racing. What's wrong with me?"

"You've never really been in any open places, have you?"

Peter shook his head.

"Honey, I think I understand. You're out of your element. This is all so unfamiliar to you. Spending your life identifying avenues of safety is second nature." She smiled. "The open countryside has thrown you for a loop."

Peter's eyes widened with dawning comprehension.

"The best cure is staying here and continuing to experience the country." Elizabeth leaned her shoulder and arm tightly against him, enjoying the warm solid feel of him. "Tomorrow we'll work with desensitizing you one small bit at a time."

"Agoraphobia," Peter laughed, nodding in agreement, "that's it! I'm not crazy or beyond redemption. All day I worried about being out of the city. There was danger all around us and I couldn't protect you. Even when nothing threatened us the feeling wouldn't quite go away. I couldn't understand why being out here, in this peaceful environment, was so frightening to me."

"And," Elizabeth added, "it'll only get better from this point on. Right?"

"That's right," Peter said, lifting his chin a notch and drawing her close. "I've fought worse demons than this. Tomorrow is another day and," he turned to her and looked her over, "let's get you into bed. It's been a rough day; we need to be up early for that hike we've planned."

Peter stood and pulled Elizabeth to her feet. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he led her to the bedroom.


	4. Rent a Sitter

Based on the Animula series created by tigeress79. Takes place after tigeress79's Chapter 29.

A/N: Peter continues to convalesce under Neal's gentle care. When Neal is summoned away, he must find someone to watch the seriously ill man. Who better than Mozzie? Right … right?

RENT A SITTER

"Absolutely not!"

"Come on, Moz. It's not a big deal."

"Did you say 'not a big deal'?" the smaller man stuttered, turning to face his friend. "Did I hear you right? Of course it's a big deal. You plan to go meet some corporate fat cat to finesse your big con with Cheng."

Mozzie paused, intent on getting his point across. "And you want _me_ to stay here and babysit Golden Eyes?"

Neal uttered a heavy sigh, letting his body sink into the sofa. "I didn't say babysit."

"Sure sounded like it to me. What am I, Rent-A-Sitter?"

"I already explained. The CFO of Siegel's called me today; Simmens asked me to drop by this afternoon." He grinned, blue eyes twinkling. "You know I can't miss this opportunity. He's one of our tickets to success. Simmens led his company's finance function through at least three major acquisitions, and there's talk of him integrating a fourth – Ariba. It's been reported that he, personally, caused the resurgence in the company's stock."

Mozzie fell into a sullen silence, strolling over to Neal's wine rack, peering at the bottle display.

"We're talking major assets here." Neal frowned. "It's not like Peter's any danger to you." He was beginning to wonder if this was a good idea after all.

Mozzie continued to ignore him.

"You've seen Peter; on bad days he hardly has energy to move across the room. Taylor said his condition is fair but he still requires careful observation. Severe sepsis disrupts your immune system, making a person very vulnerable. Moz, I don't want to worry about him while I'm out."

Neal's friend sniffed in disdain.

"What? You expect Peter to attack you while I'm gone?"

"Neal, that's exactly what I expect."

"How would he accomplish that?" Neal asked. "Stare you down? Bore you to death with nonverbal conversation? Right now Peter's across the hall reading up about chess. One way I found to get him to sit down and rest - I told him it'd be great to have a chess partner on hand. I don't think he believed me but it's occupying his time."

"Why won't you tell me what happened the day I dropped by with the defibrillator?"

"Moz─"

Mozzie raised his hand, brushing aside Neal's attempt to interrupt. "I saw bruises on _your_ neck. All you said was he had been delirious. I told you when you first brought him here; he's dangerous. Find someone to pawn him off on," he insisted, "you've been good to him. Now let him go."

Neal leaned forward. "I won't do that. I promised Peter he would be safe here."

" _You can never trust them."_

Neal rolled his eyes and said nothing.

"Why don't you ever listen to my advice?"

"Maybe because it's so often colored by conspiratorial diatribes and …. improbable dangers─"

"Your words wound me, Mon frère," replied the little guy. "Peter is trouble. He shook his head and scowled. "Listen to me. This isn't his home; you _own_ him. He's a possession, not a friend. You've given him no option, Neal. He can't just walk out the door." He pointed directly at the younger man. "Don't you realize your new 'corporate calling card' has begun turning you against me?"

Neal came to his feet.

"We've been through this," he answered. A flicker of anger appeared on Neal's face. There for a second and then gone. "Peter's here to stay. Now… will you watch him for me or should I make other arrangements?"

After a long pause Mozzie nodded, conceding defeat.

"Just call me Home Alone Prevention, Incorporated."

"Thanks, Moz. I knew I could trust you to take care of him."

Mozzie grimaced, grabbing one of Neal's most expensive wines before sitting down.

"I've written down the medication Peter requires. The location where I'll be. Call me if you need me. It should only take me a couple of hours, max."

"Fine," said Mozzie, sitting down. "Where do I warm up the milk?"

Smiling broadly, Neal walked to the closet to change his clothes.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Several hours later …

Peter stood facing the outside terrace. Every few minutes he slowly shifted back and forth on his feet, staring at the floor.

"What are you doing?" Mozzie asked, suspiciously.

Since Neal had left the apartment, leaving Peter alone with Mozzie, the animula had barely said a word, avoiding eye contact and not looking up. The con man knew the injured man must be getting tired. He was holding his shoulders in a raised position, requiring continual effort, obviously stressing the healing lacerations. Mozzie observed Peter's body language, noticed his shoulders were tight, pulled back, his head lowered. Was the animula feeling threatened? Hmm… it seemed Peter was as reluctant to be in his company as he was to be in his.

"I asked you a question," Mozzie declared. His tone decidedly gentler this time.

Peter started slightly, but immediately composed himself. Turning around, an unfocused look in his eyes, he answered emotionlessly.

"I'm standing by the window."

"I can see that. Why?"

"I'm waiting for instructions," answered Peter, adding after a pause, the "Master Haversham."

"Well… come sit down and rest. Neal told me not to put any undue stress on you."

"I prefer not to sit in your presence," Peter said. "Since you don't want me across the hall and it's obvious you're not comfortable with me, this seemed the best solution."

"I _prefer_ you sit down before you fall down. You're too big for me to pick up," added Mozzie, pointing to the chair directly across from him."

Peter made his way carefully across the room as the little man continued speaking.

"And let's get one thing straight. I may be height-challenged but I'm an accomplished Aikido black belt. So don't even think of trying anything."

Mozzie briefly demonstrated a twisting, seated defensive move, vocal grunts included. Peter stopped short, staring in disbelief.

Quietly muttering, "I'm left with a Jackie Chan lunatic," the ill man carefully edged closer to his own chair, eyes fixed on the faux Japanese Sensei.

"Aha. I see I've gotten you attention," Mozzie exclaimed.

"Yes, Master Haversham, you have."

Attempting to hide his physical weakness, Peter gently lowered himself down onto the chair, leaning back with his hands supporting his weight. It seemed he didn't want to get comfortable or wanted to be able to escape quickly. His intense golden gaze never lost focus on the short man, directly in front of him.

"May I have permission to speak?"

Mozzie felt a small twist in his gut as he noted Peter's unnatural pallor, guarded expression and ineffable sadness present in his eyes.

"You ah … don't need to ask permission. And," the little guy added, "I go by Mozzie. Let's just dispense with honorific titles for now."

Peter nodded solemnly, an indefinable emotion flickering in his eyes. "You've achieved Shodan?"

Mozzie stiffened as Peter quoted Sawaki Kodo, "To gain is suffering; loss is enlightenment."

"For every gain to occur there must be a sacrifice," answered Mozzie, quote master-extraordinaire. "You've studied Wu Shen Pai?"

"I'm familiar with the writings," Peter answered, his gaze suddenly dropping to the floor. "But there's no need for worry; I would never have been allowed instruction in martial arts. Haven't you heard? We're a very passive species."

Mozzie wasn't sure if Peter was mocking him or trying to appease him. He suspected the former. With curiosity piqued, he decided it was now time to get to know this man better. For Neal's protection only, he told himself.

"The literature about Animula asserts you are passive. I know that to be false."

"This comes from experience?" asked Peter, doubtfully. He directed the golden eyes, loathed by society, directly at him.

Meeting Peter's gaze head on, Mozzie only nodded in affirmative.

Peter's mouth twisted into a wry smile that never reached his eyes. "For whatever it's worth, you have no cause to fear me."

"Harrumph. I'll take that under advisement." There were nagging questions floating around in his head, but Mozzie put them aside for the time being. "Neal tells me you've been reading up on chess the last few days. Since I obviously have time at my disposal, we can play a game or two. I suppose I can be persuaded to provide some instruction in this fine art."

Suddenly Peter felt very tired. This was dangerous ground. Was he expected to intentionally lose or play with skill? Once again he found himself walking a tightrope. Expelling his breath, he nodded uncommittedly.

Mozzie quickly topped up his wine glass. "I'll go get Neal's board. Don't worry, I'll take it easy on you."

Scurrying off, he returned with the game pieces and the medical paraphernalia necessary for Peter's next round of IV antibiotics. Placing them on the coffee table in front of them, he asked, "Before we start do you need anything?"

"No," replied Peter. Pointing to the syringe, he shifted nervously, curling his hand into a fist and pulling it closer to his body. "I'm sure the medicine can wait until later."

"Neal told me you'd be scheduled for another dose of antibiotics at three o'clock." Mozzie motioned for Peter's hand. "I know how to do this. Come on, I need to lock the syringe into the port."

There was no movement; Peter's hand remained locked next to his knee. Both men exchanged glances.

Mozzie refused to budge, watching for the smallest sign of acquiescence. After several moments, when Peter edged his hand slightly forward, Neal's friend heaved an inner sigh of relief. Taking pains to gently administer the medicine, Mozzie began to feel self-conscious under the jumpy man's watchful gaze. It was painfully obvious how uncomfortable his physical touch was to Peter. He began to see the man in a new light.

Mozzie decided a bit of levity might work. "I didn't make the chess team in school, you know," he said, avoiding eye contact and settling back in his seat. "I couldn't make the height requirement."

A second of silence was followed by a cough or voluntary throat clearing from Peter's vicinity.

"Do you need any water?" Mozzie asked solicitously. The other man shook his head.

"Good. Now we can start the chess game."

Peter closed his eyes for a moment, carefully considering his next words. "You do realize chess can be likened to a mathematical problem. Animula are known for their scientific, eidetic and mathematical abilities. It's theoretically possible to grasp every element of the game through logic and numerical reasoning."

"And your point is?" asked Mozzie.

"A chess problem is simply an exercise in pure mathematics," replied Peter truthfully.

Mozzie snorted. "Okay, Bobby Fisher. Let's see the proof."

Peter decided not to inform Neal's annoying and dangerous friend that he had been practicing, using Neal's computer as a chess training partner, for the last few days. The man would either ignore the news or scoff with derision.

Mozzie won the first game. The second ended in a stalemate. Both men reached an impasse and agreed to another game. The smaller man continued to enjoy Neal's delectable wine selection, finding enjoyment sparring with his quiet companion. Mozzie reminded himself to stay alert, surprised to discover Peter possessed a keen mind, sharp wit and seeming inexhaustible supply of quotes to trade off. It seemed highly probable his opponent would win the final game.

"You know, Peter, 'excellence at chess is one mark of a scheming mind,'" baited Mozzie.

Peter was quick with a Bobby Fischer retort, "'I don't believe in psychology. I believe in good moves.'"

By the time the last game neared conclusion Mozzie noted Peter's moves quickly becoming sloppy and rushed. About to knock one of his opponent's pieces off the board with glee, he looked up and saw Peter leaning to the side, sagging in the chair, hands trembling with fatigue. Oh brother! Neal was going to kill him. He hadn't meant to get carried away. Tendrils of guilt began to coil around him.

"That's it for today," declared Mozzie. "I don't want to lose and we can reschedule when I'm fresh." As Peter looked up startled, the small man's voice became gruff. "No arguments; I insist on an adjournment."

"As you wish, Master Haversham."

"Just Mozzie," he replied. "You reached chess equality."

The smallest hint of a smile crossed his opponent's weary face.


	5. Caught Looking

A/N: Takes place a few days after "Rent A Sitter". Big thanks to all that continue to follow this series. I deeply appreciate your comments and interest.

CAUGHT LOOKING

"Let's take a break."

Neal stood up, motioning to Peter. Stretching his arms overhead, he effortlessly bent down to touch his toes.

"Why?" asked Peter, moving his chair back from the table. "We're close to breaking the code Cheng placed on his assets. You asked me to help you with this. Couple more hours and victory is ours; my gut is never wrong."

"How can you sit for hours, never moving, peering endlessly at statistics?"

"Beats standing for hours," muttered Peter.

"Have you ever heard 'all work and no play make─'"

"Jack a dull boy. Yes, I have." Peter rolled his eyes. Once involved in a task, he found it hard to stop. Market conditioning wasn't easily discarded. "If you are referring to 'Proverbs in English', written by James Howell, circa 1659."

Neal responded with his trademark smile.

"Neal, I may have been educated by the Market, but I was provided an extensive and diverse curriculum."

"I'm convinced. Hours and hours of tedium. Tell me, Peter, did it ever include an activity called… recreation?"

The older man stiffened, glancing at him with startled gold eyes. Putting down the paper he was doodling on, Peter quickly looked away. Neal instantly regretted his flippant question. Earlier, the two men had been enjoying an atmosphere of casual conversation. Neal had forgotten to be vigilant about the emotional minefield his companion continually navigated.

"No," Peter answered, his voice turning cold, refusing to divulge any further details.

Neal looked at him with an unidentifiable emotion in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Peter. That was… harsh. I didn't mean to pry into your childhood."

"Yes, you did," retorted Peter. "Any additional questions you want unanswered?"

A moment of silence followed. Blowing out a short burst of air through his nose, Peter observed Neal looking down on him, concern written across his face.

The conman slowly returned to his seat disheartened. _How can I enjoy bantering_ _with someone having zero memories of happiness or even a fleeting sense of safety_?

Without really thinking about speaking aloud, Peter next words caught Neal off guard.

"I… ah had a baseball mitt once," said Peter, his halting words breaking into the conman's thoughts. Peter quickly looked at him watching for Neal's reaction.

Neal's eyebrows arched, not daring to interrupt. Nodding his head, he silently encouraged Peter to continue speaking.

"It happened at my first placement. I was eighteen years-old, a financial intern with Chase Banking, trying to decipher how to fit into the _human_ world. In the evenings, they often allowed the few Animula, they owned, to sit in the enclosed basement courtyard next to our living quarters. One of the caretakers of the building, his name was Jensen, used to watch me doing endless crossword puzzles." He paused with the faintest hint of a smile. "I've always liked the mental challenge they provide."

Neal nodded again, a warm smile encouraging Peter to continue the story.

"Master Jensen would see me sitting for hours trying to achieve superior level or solve a metapuzzle. He'd come over, for a few minutes, careful not get too close but always peering over my shoulder." Peter proceeded on, not realizing the extent of discomfort his following words would bring to his new owner.

"Animula children, Neal, have no awareness of play. But by adolescence, I was curious enough about the concept to want to decipher the human attraction to sports."

Neal hid his wince, eager for additional insight into Peter's past. Peter hesitated, wondering if he should go on.

Neal spoke up. "Was Jensen a compassionate man?"

"He was. He never failed to look me in the eyes. One day, I gathered enough courage to ask him about a baseball clue for my puzzle. Sort of testing the waters… you know." Peter began to slowly close out the websites on the computer in front of him.

"One night, he bent down, his back to the courtyard door, and whispered to meet him behind one of the outdoor sheds."

"Weren't you worried or concerned? About what he wanted?"

"At first. I had already had my share of unwarranted cruelty. But what he proposed made me awful curious. I was young; I thought it worth the risk." An uneasy smile. "He couldn't hurt me too badly without permission or my owner would come down on him."

 _Of course,_ surmised Neal. _A janitor wouldn't be allowed to badly injure someone's property, not if he wanted to keep his position._

"What happened," Neal asked.

"He was standing out of sight of the courtyard, holding a baseball mitt in one hand, broken in and well-used, and a dirty white baseball in the other. I can remember his exact words to this day."

Neal witnessed Peter's glum demeanor melt away; his face becoming animated with… fondness?

"Hey kid? Want to toss a ball around, he asked." Peter sat back in his seat, stretching his shoulders to relieve discomfort. "If you're interested in what baseball's all about, you need to play it." His golden rimmed eyes began to twinkle. "I just stared at him, not making a movement, not saying a word. But he placed the glove on my hand, glanced round, stepped back, showed me the ball and let er rip."

Tossing his head back and simulating the toss, Peter laughed softly, the worry lines in his face softening.

 _Peter did have a few pleasant memories_ , thought Neal, returning the laugh. He was surprised to discover how gratifying that made him feel.

"Did you catch the ball?"

"Oh no," Peter grinned. "That's the best part, Neal. I failed to react, even to lift the glove. The ball hit me square in the chest, surprising the hell out of me."

"I don't understand," admitted Neal.

"Jensen didn't care. He came over without a word. Put the glove on his hand, tossed the ball in the air a few times, demonstrating the concept. Then he replaced the glove back on my hand and told me the finest baseball players, the people who survive in this world, don't ever give up... _ever_." Blinking rapidly several times, Peter paused.

"Anyway, we ended up meeting quite a few times that year. Maybe eight or ten times. Jensen warned me to keep it a secret; as if I had anyone to tell. But he knew it was dangerous for him, I'm sure. No one in their right mind would spend time with an Animula."

"Maybe it was you he was protecting?"

Peter grimaced, reacting to Neal's naiveté.

"Jensen never realized what he set in motion. I began to understand my education had been structured for utter profit. Many of the _truths_ about Animula were based upon misconception and outright lies. My growing interest in baseball and my yearning to play the game taught me to doubt everything the Market had hammered into me…"

Peter's words trailed off.

Neal was afraid to ask the next question.

"What happened to Jensen? Did your owner discover what was going on?" _Good God,_ _please don't tell me they tortured a young kid for playing_ _ball?_

"I'm not sure." Peter's hands, now folded in his lap, were tightly gripped. "He disappeared from the building one day and I never saw him again. I went back to the area, weeks later and saw a bag peeking out from behind one of the sheds. Inside was his old glove and ball."

"He left them for you."

Peter turned back to look down to his computer. "I don't know. I wanted to think so at the time, but they were worn and worthless. He probably couldn't be bothered to retrieve them."

Neal understood their importance to Peter. He didn't ask him if he still had them; Neal remembered the meager contents Peter's suitcase held when he first arrived. How long he had been able to hide a treasured possession before it had been discarded?

"Do you still like baseball?" asked Neal.

As Peter mulled over his answer, he paused and looked up. He seemed to resolve an internal debate within himself.

"Yeah," he replied. "You know… I really do."


	6. Charlie Potatoes Part 1

A/N: Story takes place after Tigeress79's Animula Chapter 32.

Charlie Potatoes Part 1

"Movie night! You know I love movie night," exclaimed Mozzie, stepping through the open door of Neal's upscale apartment. "I've been looking forward to this since yesterday's invitation."

The little guy gazed about the living area, noting the appetizer trays, decanters, bottles, wine glasses and DVD cases, a smug smile tugging at his lips. Neal had even positioned the couch and chairs in an inviting circle around a large screen TV monitor.

Skirting around the furniture, as if it were an obstacle ready to topple the large carry bag he was carefully balancing in his arms, Mozzie edged over to Neal's kitchen counter, placing his duffel bag on the floor. Pulling out a large box set of movies and several huge tins of gourmet popcorn, his smile grew larger.

"I stopped at Penn Plaza, mon frère. An acquaintance of mine got me a huge discount at Garratt's."

Garrett's, an upscale popcorn shop first originating in Chicago, was a popular attraction among the elite who desired perfectly cooked popcorn crisp and light, air-popped and served with natural flavorings. The store advertised their ingredients were from closely guarded, secret family recipes.

Neal's eyes were locked on the number of tins his friend continued to pull out of his bag. "Looks like you bought out the store. Did you leave any behind?" he asked with a grin, reaching out to help steady the towering stack.

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "I bought all four varieties including 'Chicago Mix'; your own personal favorite.

He knew Neal's weakness, a passion for Garrett's blend of cheese and caramel flavored popcorn, known to be addictive as crack. "Too bad June's on vacation. I bought some of her macadamia, caramel crisp."

"Well, it's a lovely addition to our evening repast. Thanks, Moz."

"The least I could do," his friend beamed with delight, pleased with himself. "So… how did you get rid of your pet for the evening? Where is Peter? In his room amusing himself with mathematical abstractions, or surfing the net for award-winning stock analysis and portfolio management?"

Neal shook his head.

"Oh, I know," Mozzie snorted. "He's eagerly devouring rules and chess tactics for a higher skill level? He actually thinks he can beat me."

"I thought he already had."

"One more point against him," Mozzie declared. "You cannot play at chess if you are kind-hearted."

Neal chuckled. "Peter didn't quote French proverbs when he told me about your chess games."

"I'm sure he didn't."

Pausing, the small man glanced at Neal's front door. "Say, it's pretty early for him to go to bed. He's not running another fever, is he?" _Not that I'm worried about him,_ thought Mozzie. _He just needs constant supervision._

"Yeah, about that," Neal reluctantly confessed, sliding his hands in his pockets and leaning against the counter, "I have to come clean with you."

Mozzie stopped midway between the kitchen and the living area, turning his head around to gawk.

"What? Wait! You didn't ask him to join us tonight. Neal, tell me you didn't─"

"I don't want him to feel excluded, Moz. Besides it's a good way for the two of you to get to know each other better."

Mozzie shook his head. "Two problems with that scenario. One, I don't want to get to know him better; I don't want to know him at all. And two, you told me on the phone this would be a time for you and me, sans Golden Eyes, to relax after the past week's trauma." He sunk powerless onto the sofa, closest to the wine bottles and oeuvres trays.

Neal reached into a drawer, pulled out a corkscrew and opened one of his best bottles of Bordeaux. Filling two glasses, he carried them to his slumped friend. Sitting down next to Mozzie on the couch, he gently placed the wine on the coffee table.

"Wine, food, good companionship, a classic movie … you'll see. A good time to be had by all."

"No, no, no," Mozzie sighed, wearily.

Treading softly, Peter appeared at the open door, closing it gently behind him. Earlier that day, Neal had invited Peter to spend a social evening with him and Mozzie. After several attempts to dissuade Neal from the asinine idea, his owner had flatly informed him, the evening was planned and he hoped to see him at 7PM.

Peter hadn't taken two steps into the room before the other two men looked up. "My research is almost complete," he stated, waving some paperwork at Neal. "This should give you a clear idea of which specific stocks to zero in on."

Attempting to feel useful, knowing Neal's interest in Cheng's assets, Peter had continued to study the quarterly and annual earnings reports of several of Cheng's hidden companies, identifying the ones with volatile earnings versus the ones with serious upside potential.

"Don't you ever knock?" Moz asked, his blue eyes sweeping over Peter, evaluating. "Neal, does he knock? It's kind of creepy having him sneak up on us."

Peter drew a deep breath; Neal stood up smiling.

"The door wasn't closed, Moz," he said patiently. "And besides, you know Peter has the run of the house, same as you. Actually, more so… since he lives here."

Mozzie waved this away, sipping at one of Neal's fine wines, a food-filled plate on his lap. The area around his eyebrows furrowed. "Have you been doing anything actually useful?" Mozzie asked, directing his question Peter's way.

Peter shook his head, giving a pointed look of his own.

"Just the usual, Mr. Haversham. Plotting mayhem, fostering uprisings and contemplating murdering my owner in his sleep."

Mozzie's mouth dropped open. Neal threw Peter an amused grin.

"You deserved that, Moz. Loosen up and have more wine. Peter's looking forward to a quiet evening watching classic movies."

"Right," muttered Peter, smiling coldly.

As he stood there stiffly, looking around the room, noting the food, alcohol and furniture arrangement, Neal took pity on him, stood up and motioned Peter to the kitchen.

"There's bottled water in the fridge, Peter and since Dr. Taylor said no alcohol, I designed a special drink for you."

Neal drew out a beautiful cut glass crystal pitcher, pouring a mixture into a frosty glass mug. As Peter approached with a quizzical look, Neal added, "You have to try this. I've gotten raves for my pineapple, passion fruit and coconut mocktail."

"Neal, I─"

"Oh go on, Peter," suggested Mozzie, momentarily stopping his munching. "Neal won't rest until you've tried his exotic elixir. He doesn't name these concoctions but the ones he made for me, when I was sick, are pretty good… even without the alcohol."

Feeling defeated, Peter took the mug, following Neal back to the seating area. Neal stretched out next to Mozzie. Peter moved to the chair furthest away and sat down ramrod straight, shoulders thrown back, eyeing the men as if he expected a momentary attack.

"Well, this is certainly the beginning of a delightful evening," said Mozzie. "However, not all is lost; I brought some really great movies."

"No," declared Neal. "We are not watching 'Tiles of Fire' or─"

"Whaat?"

"…any of its sequels tonight."

"Why not?" asked his friend. "Peter probably hasn't seen any of them?" Mozzie directed his next words to Peter. "Have you? Do slav… ah, Animula watch movies?"

"No."

Elizabeth certainly had her favorite films and introduced Peter to the concept of date night on the couch: you, spouse and the sofa. He smiled inwardly, remembering her turning what she called an ordinary night at home, into a special evening for the two of them.

"See," argued Mozzie, "he wants to see them."

"No, I don't."

"Don't worry," Neal interrupted. "I've picked a classic. My apartment, my rules." He lifted the remote and smiled.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A/N: The movie Neal chooses is a favorite of mine. Any thoughts of what it is? There's a hint in Part 1.


	7. Charlie Potatoes Part 2

Charlie Potatoes Part 2

"So, what've you got for us?" Mozzie asked. "It's not one of those artsy, independent flicks, is it? If you're introducing your new roomie to the concept of a motion picture classic, my DVD movies," he waved his hand in the direction of his stack, "is a much better choice than some plot claiming to force the viewer into a deeper level of thinking."

Shaking his head and reaching for more wine, he glanced at Peter who was eyeing him with an impassive expression.

"Don't you agree, Peter? Let's watch an action or adventure movie. It'll give you a much needed break from all that number crunching."

Taking a moment to reply, he returned Mozzie's direct gaze without hesitation. "I'm sure you're familiar with the expression 'a fish out of water'. Since I'm out of my element, gentlemen, I'll leave the decision in your capable hands."

Neal smiled and winked at Peter.

"Tactful but cowardly answer," replied Mozzie. "Okay then. Neal, Mr. Limpet here, doesn't get a vote."

A flash of annoyance crossed Peter's features. Setting his drink on the side table and crossing his arms, Peter sent a long-suffering glance Neal's way. His fever had returned late that afternoon; he wasn't feeling very compliant.

Turning to the table behind him, Mozzie began stacking an even larger, intricate arrangement of blue crab beignets, crudités, bacon-wrapped dates, canapés, and ham and gruyere pastries onto his plate.

"Don't keep us in suspense any longer." The little guy paused for a moment. "By the way, is there dessert for later in the evening?"

"I have dessert in the fridge," Neal chuckled, pouring more wine and taking a sip. "But will you have room left after all the tins of popcorn you're planning to polish off?" Pressing a button on the remote, he started the DVD player.

"Peter, you'd better help yourself to some food before it disappears."

Setting the mood, Neal leaned over the couch, turning off one of the table lamps. "Moz, you'll enjoy this one. The genre is drama, contains action and suspense, certainly a classic and one of my favorites."

Pausing his eating, Mozzie turned attention to his best friend. "Drama. Hmm… plot-driven, portraying realistic characters or situations. But your clue is too vague. Dramatic films are the largest film genre. You need to offer another hint."

"What if I say 'Charlie Potatoes'?"

Immediately smiling with recognition, Mozzie clapped his hands. Maybe the evening wasn't ruined after all.

"Peter," Neal added, "I hope you like the film."

The DVD began to play and the picture, filmed in black and white cinematography, began with opening credits. Peter leaned slowly forward, and for several minutes, his eyes were glued to the screen.

"I've been mad all my natural life," he quietly muttered.

Neal and Mozzie traded looks of surprise before turning to stare at Peter.

"He's seen this movie," the smaller man whispered to Neal. "Peter just quoted Sidney Poitier's line from The Defiant Ones."

Neal agreed. "He continues to amaze me."

"He's supposed to worry you," Mozzie hissed, eying Neal's new asset from his peripheral vision.

Peter half-listened to them talk over him, remembering an evening watching the multiple Academy Award nominated flick with El. Insisting they view it one night, she described the film as one of the best movies ever made about prejudice and the capacity of the human heart to change.

He had found himself captivated by the powerful, raw emotions displayed by two members of a chain gang, one white and one black, shackled together, forced to rely on each other, fleeing across the old south. Opposites in every way, raised without common background, the men had formed a deep brotherly-bond culminating in a surprising ending. What's worth more: freedom or an individual's life?

As the movie continued to run, Mozzie and Neal drank more wine, munched on appetizers, quoted familiar lines from the film and relaxed together in a way Peter envied. Watching the movie became bittersweet, evoking memories of a happier time and his ever present pain of loneliness.

Thoughts of his wife flooded Peter's mind, but he couldn't help begin to relax amid the easy camaraderie Neal and Mozzie displayed. Often wondering how it felt to have a male friend, the closest he came had been the short period of time he had shared with Daniel, another Animula.

Past the film's halfway point, Neal picked up the remote pausing the movie. Mozzie wanted to open his tins of popcorn. Carrying an assortment over to the couch, he stacked them on the floor. Opening two of the containers, Mozzie placed the Chicago Mix on the coffee table and gingerly offered the second tin to Peter.

"I've been known to share," he reluctantly confessed.

Peter turned to him, a puzzled look on his face. Neal's friend wouldn't want to share food with him. Had Neal prodded him while his attention was elsewhere? Sighing inwardly, ready to provide the awkward and polite refusal, Mozzie edged closer to his chair and unceremoniously dropped the container on his lap. Unable to hide an uncontrollable flinch, the Animula grabbed at it, staring down at his hands.

"Which flavor is that, Moz?" asked Neal, taking control of the situation.

"It's the CheeseCorn," answered Mozzie, before turning back to Peter.

"Why don't you try it? You're not lactose-intolerant, are you? I can't eat it," he explained, "but they say the melted cheddar is amazing."

Peter continued to stare at him speechless.

"It's movie night, Golden Boy. Popcorn is eaten during movie night!"

Expressing no overt appreciation, there was a slight relaxation of Peter's shoulders and a flicker of light in his eyes that told his companions he was pleased.

"Thank you," Peter said sincerely, experiencing an unexpected warm feeling rise in him. "I certainly wouldn't want to upset tradition."

As Neal waited for Mozzie to refill the wine glasses and settle back down, he refilled Peter's mug. His blue eyes swept over him taking note of the man's flagging energy. Dr. Taylor had cautioned him about remaining alert to any telltale signs of exhaustion. It was time to finish running the film and allow Peter to retire to bed.

"Are you up to seeing the rest of the movie?" Neal quietly asked Peter, as an aside.

Taking a generous sip of his mocktail, Peter nodded and cracked a smile.

"Wouldn't miss it; stick to the classics and you can't go wrong."

"My feelings exactly." Neal replied, with a hopeful smile. He had anticipated Peter and Moz would understand his choice for movie night. The protagonists' deep misunderstanding of each other, society's separation that kept them apart, did not prevent a bond of friendship that transcended deep prejudice.

"Ahem!" Mozzie tapped the stem of his wineglass. "May we get on with the movie? 'Time's a-wastin'."

"If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must be the greatest prodigality," replied Peter.

"By necessity, by proclivity, and by delight, we all quote," countered Mozzie, enjoying the recitations. Cheeks flushed, his Emerson quote sounded just a bit tipsy.

Neal grinned and breathed a small sigh of relief. The conman hit the play button; The Defiant Ones picking up from where they had left off. Getting Peter to join them this evening hadn't been easy. Mozzie and Peter would probably remain at odds with each other, but they had both lowered their guard. He would count the night a success.


	8. Live By Love Though the Stars Walk

A/N: Based upon Tigeress79's "Animula"; takes place after her Chapter 38.

Chapter title from a poem by E.E. Cummings

 **Live By Love Though the Stars Walk Backward**

Reclining on his chaise lounge, Neal was enjoying a quiet evening on the patio. Sipping an expensive wine, he watched the sky darken and the stars began their celestial shine. His thoughts wandered to the man residing with him these past few weeks.

Earlier in the day, Peter had laughed over some silly caper Neal had related, a noise so filled with rare amusement and light abandonment that Neal had laughed too, and felt sincerely happy his new companion was feeling more comfortable in his presence. It was a far cry from the first early days when Peter staunchly believed Neal meant him intentional harm.

Swirling the wine around his glass, the conman watched the French chardonnay reflect the dim lights. His thoughts were interrupted when Peter stepped onto the balcony, a water glass in his hands, vigilant eyes fixed on Neal.

"I finished analyzing Cheng's stock options," said Peter.

Seeing him, Neal smiled.

"You caught me, Peter. I'm starting a bit early tonight." He pointed to the night sky. "Look at all that beauty. It's just too nice a night to waste inside."

Peter followed his gaze, remaining silent, only nodding in affirmation.

Neal studied his face.

"Sit down and join me. It's a fabulous evening." As Peter hesitated, he added, "We can discuss what you found."

He assumed the re-phrasing would make Peter more willing to accept, believing the invitation included a directive. Sighing inwardly, Neal made a sweeping gesture with his free hand, indicating the empty lounge chair beside him. Peter's trust still seemed fragile, his friendship inaccessible.

Shooting him a cautious look, Peter placed his glass next to some d'oeuvres on Neal's table and sat down, folding his arms across his chest.

"Would you like a drink of something more substantial? Some wine? You're well enough now to partake. This," he held up his goblet, "is Montrachet of Cote de Beaune."

"No. I─"

"You don't know what you're missing. This vintage has the finest taste of chardonnay grapes, possessing a rich lemon and citrus palate. If Mozzie hadn't depleted my stock, I could have offered you a taste of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Montrachet." Neal shook his head. "One of the priciest but most flavorful white wines in the world."

Peter shot him that look.

"Let me guess, you must be more of a connoisseur of what… blue-collar beer?"

Peter uttered a sound of exasperation, secretly perturbed Neal had surmised a fondness for a forbidden item Elizabeth had introduced into his life.

"Am I right?" Neal inquired.

"I already told you Animula aren't allowed alcohol."

"Rules, Peter. Let's not specify rules." Lifting the glass to his lips, he paused. "Well, I'm afraid I don't have any beer in stock. I'll pick some up tomorrow."

Peter threw up his hands in mock defeat. There were some things now he let lie.

Sitting side by side, a comfortable silence followed. Peter twisted his water glass around in his palms, beginning to relish the warm Manhattan evening, surprised to find he really enjoyed the capacity to relax in his owner's presence. It was an agreeable yet disturbing feeling. He reminded himself to be careful not to lower his guard; this wasn't Elizabeth at his side. Despite Neal's words to the contrary, he still held no illusions he wasn't more than an expensive new bauble in the inventory. He was Neal's useful asset to gain admittance to Cheng and his circle of associates.

The conman did take good care of him, Peter inwardly admitted. Intent on enjoying the respite, as long as Neal held his contract, Peter couldn't quite trust Neal wouldn't tire of the burden. If he continued to prove his value, maybe… just maybe his plan to acquire a bargaining monetary chip would succeed.

"Unbelievable," declared Peter as he reached down and ran one hand over fine wood grain.

"What?" Neal glanced at him.

"Even your chaise lounges are the finest quality." Peter sat up, shaking his head, continuing to stroke the recliner's wooden slats. "Teak wood, contemporary design, natural fiber bed cushion that's amazingly soft. Tell me Neal, do you always have the very best in everything?"

"Why not?" replied Neal, in a faux-hurt voice. "Better me than the obnoxious plutocrats who have no real appreciation for the finer things in life. I'm sure you met too many of them to count."

"Good point," Peter conceded. Gazing upward, he pointed at the sky. "What a view you enjoy. Even with the city lights, the night sky and the stars are _amazing_."

"I take delight in the overall splendor. I don't believe any painter has been able to replicate it."

Peter lay back. Looking over at Neal, weighing the sincerity he saw there, he realized the man was, momentarily, sharing a personal insight.

"I'm sure you've heard there are more stars in the universe than grains of sand on all the beaches on Earth," Peter replied. "The calculations are pretty straightforward once you've arrived at your base values."

Neal grinned at Peter, a trace of amusement in his blue eyes.

Peter hesitated for a moment but pushed on.

"I see the Earth as a sort of beautiful abstract artwork. An uncountable number of galaxies, each containing millions of stars with each their own planets."

"Do you enjoy astronomy or is the evening beginning to make you wax poetic?"

"Both I suppose, although I do enjoy reading astronomical journals and scientific periodicals."

 _Was that a boyish hint of excitement sounding in Peter's voice_ , thought Neal. _Interesting._

"Neal, one recent feature contained a fascinating article about a Navigators sextant used primarily for celestial navigation. This new sextant allows for a greater observation of the stars."

"Have you ever used one? A sextant?" quietly asked Neal.

Peter shook his head. "I never had the privilege."

Neal studied his companion's face. The previous excitement had faded from his eyes as a distant look began to replace it.

"Non est ad astra mollis e terries via," Peter admitted, his voice losing animation.

"There is no easy way from the earth to the stars." Neal shot him a questioning look. "Seneca?"

"Yes."

"Quoting stoic Latin philosophers, Peter?"

"Maybe it's just the right night for it. He believed humans strive to surmount impossible challenges." Peter smile didn't quite make it to his lips. "Animula? Well, I tried… tried once. For a short time I actually touched a star."

Putting down his drink, he stood up, moving slowly to the railing, gazing up into the night sky. Leaning against the barricade, he grabbed the railing as sadness threatened to buckle his knees. Even after two years, Elizabeth's loss was still fresh in his mind. He had treasured her memory during the long years of pain and abject loneliness. Now, knowing she still loved him was overwhelming; he knew he would never recover if he lost her again.

Peter wondered where El was at this moment. Was she standing under the night sky? Was she thinking of him? He wanted desperately to know that she was recovering from the travesty of her life.

Neal got up and came over to Peter. He saw the man's hands were clenched in a white-knuckled grip around the railing.

"Heavy thoughts, Peter?"

"Heavy thoughts," Peter echoed, his eyes fixed on a place only he knew.

"Care to share? It might help."

"I don't know─"

Peter's answer was cut short.

"Neal! Hey, Neal," came a voice from the doorway.

Mozzie strode on to the patio, carrying a camouflaged duffel bag over one shoulder.

"Wine and food?" Mozzie looked stricken. "Why didn't you call me?"

Before Neal could answer, an emotion flickered behind Peter's golden eyes. For an instant, it looked like regret at the interruption, than it was gone, clouded over by hollowness.

"Spur of the moment, Moz." Neal smiled. "Help yourself. You know where the glasses are."

"Okay," replied the little guy, his eyes darting from one man to the other. "What have you two been discussing?"

"Not much," Peter said vaguely. He checked his watch, turning to Neal. "It's late for me and we didn't talk about the stocks. If you'd rather wait, I'll turn in and continue my research in the morning."

Neal nodded as Mozzie cocked his head.

"Hey! Don't leave on my account."

"I had a long day," Peter told Mozzie on his way out the door, "I should get some rest."

Neal and Mozzie watched him go. Feeling suddenly weary himself, Neal turned back to his chaise lounge and sat down.

"What's going on?" asked Mozzie, putting down his bag and crossing his arms over his chest. "What's wrong with Golden Eyes?"

"Peter's still recovering, Moz. He's easily exhausted."

"Pity," replied Mozzie, nodding sympathetically. "He did look a bit listless. I'll guess I'll have to wait for my chess rematch."

Neal turned his attention to his friend's duffel bag. "Information about Renner?"

"Neal, I know I told you I'd find out what I could about Peter's old owner but something else came up. Something much more important. First, promise you'll hear me out."

"Fine. What's so important?"

Mozzie's eyes lit up, excitement spreading across his face. "Now that Peter's gone, I can tell you my news."

"Moz… I want to help Peter, not─"

"Then you need to hear what I have to say."

That got Neal's attention.


	9. Lightning Strikes Twice

A/N: Big thanks to those following and/or reviewing the story. It helps to know you are enjoying this AU.

Lightning Strikes Twice

Lightning flashed against the gray sky as Elizabeth stood by her back window lost in thought. Her somber apartment, a seventh-floor pre-war building noted for limited space, offered bad plumbing, peeling hallways and zero amenities.

The tiny living room took on a surreal color as she remained motionless framed in the shadows of twilight. The drab view of the adjacent apartment courtyard did nothing to hinder the majestic fury of the sky's raging storm outside her windowpane. It was her husband who had opened her eyes to a profound appreciation of nature's wonders.

Clutching her sweater tightly around her shoulders for warmth, Elizabeth peered up at clouds the color of gunmetal. The lightning sizzled with ferocity alternating with bellows of loud thunder. Water pelted the sides of the apartment and wind whipped around outside the building catching fallen leaves and bits of trash, tossing them haphazardly into the air. A smile soon tugged at her lips.

For two years, she had done her best to stop, momentarily, during every electrical storm and linger for what she considered an intimate moment alone with Peter. No matter where she found herself, be it at work, home or out on the Manhattan streets, she was faithful to this precious routine.

If Elizabeth wasn't alone, her co-workers, store clerks or even city pedestrians on the street would often note her momentary lapse of attention. The onlookers would often smile to themselves and wonder what the pretty brunette, lost in thought, was thinking. Only once had someone asked her about her fascination with rainstorms.

During one work break at Effortless Events, a small full service event planning company in lower Manhattan, one of her co-workers had approached, placing a hand on her shoulder to get her attention. Elizabeth had been staring blankly out the display window as sheets of rain poured down on the city streets. Startled out of her revelry, Elizabeth had inadvertently jerked away. Her eyes took on their usual haunted look and a small cry had escaped her lips.

"I'm sorry," said the young woman. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm fine, Yvonne," Elizabeth had whispered, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, the beginnings of a forced smile peeking through on her lips.

"You don't look fine," answered Yvonne as she peered around at the few customers in the shop. Smiling and holding a finger to her lips, she beckoned Elizabeth to an isolated corner of the fashionable boutique.

"You can talk to me, Elizabeth. I promise to lend a listening ear."

Elizabeth was surprised and touched by Yvonne's kind gesture. Inwardly shaking her head, she knew the danger of lost employment, the present threat of legal surveillance, and her continued secretive research of city Animula would keep her from confiding in anyone. Not even the thoughtful, kind face of her colleague would remove her unease.

"No, I _am_ fine. Just lost in memories."

When Yvonne looked skeptical she continued, forcing her face to brighten for a moment.

"Storms can bring wonderful memories. Moments shared with lost loved ones."

Elizabeth had paused.

"The earth welcomes the new rain," she declared softly, "life is renewed and eventually the sunshine appears."

Yvonne had seemed heartened by her reply, overjoyed to receive an intimate response. It was unusual for Elizabeth to mention family or friends. She had rarely shared anything about her life ─ either positive or negative ─ with anyone. Yvonne had seemed intrigued by Elizabeth, and appeared to want the newest employee to trust her enough to release some of her guarded demeanor.

Elizabeth had once overheard one employee telling another that she was considered a quiet, solitary woman who kept to herself. Elizabeth knew she was a competent employee. She had strived to maintain a polite and pleasant demeanor in a distant kind of way.

Her co-workers hadn't seemed to be bothered by the electric monitoring ankle bracelet evident on Elizabeth's leg. She knew Ryan Miller, owner and manager or Effortless Events, had warned his small number of employees he was hiring a woman on work release program. She surmised they'd been told to mind their business about her criminal record and respect each other's privacy.

Since Ryan was known as a fair-minded man, a friendly boss providing a pleasant place to work, no one had seemed to questioned his decision or Elizabeth's history. She had been overjoyed to find Effortless Events a far better working environment than the first job she landed fresh out of prison.

Her short stint as a clerk at Dearmott Art Gallery had proven to be a nightmare. Thrown into a toxic work situation, by a court-mandated parole officer, she had found herself with a tyrannical boss who belittled her parole status, demanding yes to every request and making sure she understood she could be fired in a moment's notice for not performing to company expectations. Elizabeth had lasted three long months. This time around she was determined to keep her position.

As the wind howled more fiercely and the sky grew darker, Elizabeth frowned. It was getting to be early evening and she had forgotten the kitchen sink was clogged and filled with dirty water. She had meant to call the superintendent, for the umpteenth time, to come fix the problem. She really didn't want to struggle to make dinner in the kitchen. The super had not responded to her plea in three days.

 _Not like Peter_ , she thought. Once again memories brought her back to the happiest times of her life.

…...

"Peter! What are you doing?" Elizabeth asked, walking into their kitchen, her high heels clicking on the wood floor.

Peter, lying under the kitchen sink, clad only in t-shirt and jeans, straightened up with a surprised jerk, hitting his head solidly against the open top of the cabinet.

"Oww," he muttered, rubbing the top of his head. "El, warn me when you're coming in."

"You surprised me, hon. Weren't you just reading in the living room a few minutes ago."

"I _was_ reading in the living room. Now I'm reading in here," he said, pointing to the thick manual lying on the white marbled top kitchen island table.

Elizabeth walked over to the table, sat down on the pink-cushioned counter stool, and immediately pulled the book toward her. Flipping through the pages, she removed his bookmark as her eyes opened wide in surprise.

"The Complete Fix-It Yourself Plumbing Repair Manual?"

"Yup."

"Where did you get this?" she asked, a teasing grin curving her lips.

"I ordered it on-line. They delivered it yesterday," Peter replied sheepishly. "I hope you don't mind. The drain's been getting clogged and I found the garbage disposal leaking."

"I was going to call a repairman tomorrow. Do you think you can fix it?"

"Tutorial videos and instructional manuals. How hard can it be?" He grinned his crooked grin, rose from the floor and made his way to the table. "I have it under control."

"Umm…" she replied, standing up. "You usually do." Elizabeth grabbed Peter by his shirt, pulled him toward her, and kissed him firmly on the lips. Peter's mouth was warm and she could smell his trademark cologne.

Peter slipped his arms around her waist and hugged her. After brushing back her hair with his hand, he trailed one finger down her back, making small circles. Elizabeth shivered.

"Are you cold?" he asked, eyeing her mischievously. "I have ways of making you warm."

His gold eyes twinkled with amusement; a soft smile on his lips.

Elizabeth shifted her gaze to the living room and gestured to the stairs.

…...

Suddenly something cold and wet nudged her leg. Looking down she saw Satchmo and realized the dog had been whining, seeking comfort from the storm and reminding her it was past mealtime. She took a moment to gather her thoughts.

Elizabeth knelt down. She buried her face in his fur and wept.


	10. In Case of Heartache, Steep 3-5 Minutes

A/N: Neal and Peter hash out some issues about surnames; Elizabeth and Mozzie meet for teatime.

Timestamp takes place soon after Phoenix_crysg1's, Animula, Chapter 50. Although my friend, Phoenix_crysg1, is taking time off this summer from her Animula sequel (check out her current fic "Double or Nothing"), she and I are having fun discussing future segments. Readers are in for a roller coaster ride that includes some long, deferred payback for Peter.

In Case of Heartache, Steep Three To Five Minutes

If Mozzie was honest with himself, he would have admitted to a slight case of the nerves while knocking on Elizabeth's door that afternoon. Slight case of nerves? Hah! Who was he fooling? More like emotions being tossed around in an intense tsunami.

"Just a moment," he heard Elizabeth call out.

Oh yes, Neal had relayed the message Elizabeth seemed forgiving of his clumsy, ill-timed and potentially dangerous snooping and past intrusion into her life, even to the extent of mentioning a future teatime, but she finally had had contact with long lost Peter two nights ago. It was possible her husband had persuaded her to take on a smidge of justifiable anger, perhaps some… vengeful wrath. Images of Alexander Litvinenko were suddenly swirling through his follicly challenged head.

Mozzie grimaced. Battling suspicion and conspiracy theories required copious amounts of energy, and did little for inspiring confidence in someone else's goodwill.

Laying low and avoiding Neal's apartment, now that was the better part of valor. It would, at the very least, keep an enraged Animula from possibly crushing his head with one meaty hand, given half the chance. The conman knew he'd inadvertently taken away something beyond measure from a man dubbed sub-human. Although grievously ignorant at the time, his actions had carelessly removed Peter's choice of ─ when or even if ─ someone should contact Elizabeth about his survival.

The small man had realized, in retrospective horror, that this time _he_ was one of those cold-blooded humans that harmed a defenseless man.

So here he was bravely casting a 'few' deep seated fears and regrets aside, blowing caution to the wind, and girding his loins, carrying a gift of appeasement. Skirting the issue of his own loneliness and lack of female companionship, he decided he couldn't live with himself without trying to apologize and make amends with Elizabeth Mitchell for the deceitful entry into her life. Tracing heavy steps to her apartment, he had slipped into the locked foyer and arrived knocking, unannounced at her door.

Maybe he should just back off and give Elizabeth more time to cool down.

If she did open the door, after looking through the peephole and identifying him, Mozzie was going to assure her he meant no further harm, would offer sincere apologies and future assistance to both she and… Peter. If Elizabeth actually invited him in… he would brave the lioness's den and, being no one's complete fool, use extreme caution while in her domicile.

However, to his amazement and delight, Elizabeth opened the door and welcomed him in with a warm smile. Previous nervousness and thoughts of potential revenge suddenly ceased their petty awareness. Had an odd couple of squirrely criminal and government-persecuted underdog really hit it off on their first meeting? How radical! No small feat for either of them.

Beaming with pride, the small man ambled through the doorway, giving a slight, nonchalant hand wave to Satchmo standing vigilant by the kitchen alcove.

Moments later, comfortably seated in Elizabeth's drab 7th floor apartment, sighing in relief, Mozzie lifted a water glass to his lips, shaking his head with mild bafflement.

"What is it Dante…, Mozzie?" asked Elizabeth. "Such a heavy sigh."

"Did I sigh, Elizabeth? Ah, just nature's way for the body to decompress by releasing CO2 and taking in more oxygen." He paused. "I'm fine."

"It seemed, to me, a release of pent up tension." The petite brunette smiled with a hint of sadness. "Keeping more secrets?" she asked.

"No no, not that," Mozzie hastened to assure her, "I'm just rather hesitant to tell you what I was thinking about."

A puzzled expression crossed Elizabeth's face. Cocking her head, she waited for an answer.

Mozzie knew defeat.

"I was afraid you wouldn't want to see me," he said, throwing his hands up in despair. "Spying on you, utilizing subterfuge and deceit, digging into Peter's private affairs. I… I was trying to protect Neal; I thought my only friend was in danger. I didn't trust Peter… an Animula," his words spewed out in rare honesty. "But that's no excuse," he added softly, words trailing off as he lowered his head in shame.

"I understand why you did it, Mozzie. But you're right… that's no excuse."

Her visitor shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"You lied about who you were, you lied your way into my home and abused my hospitality, but worse you've caused Peter pain."

Elizabeth leaned forward, resting her hands in her lap.

"It did eventually work out for good." Her open smile temporarily lit the dingy room. "Peter and I are back together again. But Mozzie," her breath hitched with emotion, "it could have easily gone the other way, bringing suspicion from others, flagging the Market to Peter's location or causing my husband to back away to avoid hurting me."

"I'm so sorry. I'll leave─"

"Let me finish, please."

Mozzie sat back, awaiting a curt dismissal. His stomach hurt.

"I sensed your kindness from the start; Satchmo certainly welcomed you."

Seated under the dining table, the retriever recognized his name, thumping his tail and nudging one of Mozzie's legs.

"And," she continued, "I know about the danger of trying to protect others… especially behind their back." Elizabeth momentarily closed her eyes against the pain. "I can't forgive myself for that same sin."

Mozzie wondered how Elizabeth's protection of Peter had gone dangerously wrong in the past.

"So," she added, placing a warm hand on his knee, "I forgive your transgression towards me and I'm ready to begin again, if you are. Now, you wanted to show me a peace offering you brought?"

Mozzie nodded with relief. Heaving another sigh, his happiness was quickly overshadowed by Elizabeth's next words.

"But to the harm you caused my husband, that's up to him to decide a course of action."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Peter sat at Neal's dining room table, his computer open and unused before him. Rolling an empty water glass around his fingers, he vaguely heard his friend bustling around in the kitchen working on what Neal called a 'relaxed gourmet meal that was guaranteed to knock his socks off.'" Something about showing Peter recipes that would satisfy a connoisseur's palate, yet require minimum preparation time.

Peter should have never shared his pot roast stories. Now Neal wanted to begin lessons on dazzling Elizabeth with elegant meals using available ingredients, common appliances, and without any extensive cooking experience. Perhaps Neal had too much time on his hands.

"Peter, this is one of those spectacular meals I told you about," Neal said, from the kitchen. "Seared sea scallops with mint and pea puree; sure to amaze. You'll be making inspired dishes in no time."

"Uh huh," replied Peter, as he forced a slight mile upon his lips, "sounds amazing." Inwardly troubled, the older man quickly became lost in his thoughts. Cooking with Neal was not on his radar.

His mind was focused on a white envelope, nestled inside the top drawer of his dresser, wrestling with the ramifications that would ensue if he opened it. Two days ago, Neal had handed him, what at first seemed, an innocuous envelope from Mozzie. He was told it identified his lost surname. Somehow, Neal's loony friend had snagged, performed bribery, or stolen the information most dear to an Animula: the clandestinely guarded family name.

Identified as property, Animula were given names by the Market, consisting of no more than a first name. The rigid norm always prevailed, but if a company, on the rare occasion, owned two Animula with the same first name, one was assigned their birth year as well.

"… and so once we've gathered all the necessary ingredients, it's a slam dunk to fix," Neal called out from the kitchen. "Want to give it a go?"

Receiving no response, either verbal or physical, he slowly sauntered over to the dining room table, finding Peter zoned out, oblivious to his surroundings.

"Peter?" Neal reached out, gently touching the man on his shoulder.

Peter, reverting back to ingrained protocol, stumbled up in surprise, overturning his glass and knocking over the chair.

"Dammit, Neal," he snapped. "Where did you come from?" He bowed his head, his face now flushed with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't mean to surprise you like that. You weren't responding to any of my questions." Neal stepped back, giving Peter necessary space, his face radiating regret. "Look if you're working on something, we can hold off on the cooking instructions."

"No. I'm the one who should apologize. I wasn't listening… and you startled me." Shaking his head, he gave a rueful smile. "Neal, I'm surprised you were able to approach without any awareness on my part."

"That wouldn't have happened a few weeks ago," teased Neal, "this is a good thing."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," adding in a softer tone, "for the time being."

Neal decided to let that lie. Something else was on his mind. "Are you okay, Peter? Is there something wrong? Do you need to contact Elizabeth?"

Peter's eyes darted to the ground, suddenly finding the wooden floor boards a mesmerizing pattern. As the man shifted his feet in a seemingly self-comforting pattern, Neal regretted his query. With so much coming at his friend from all directions, he didn't need prying questions from a housemate. He had perceived that Mozzie's envelope was a source of inner turmoil for Peter; the Animula had not mentioned it once after it being placed in his hands.

"Why don't we sit down, Neal," Peter said abruptly. "Please."

The two men sat down across from each other and Peter began to talk in a soft confidential tone.

"The envelope containing my surname; I haven't opened it yet. I may decide not to." He looked across at Neal. "That probably surprises you."

Neal folded his arms on the table and met Peter's steady gaze. "No, that doesn't surprise me. Peter, I can't, in anyway, fathom how difficult this decision is for you. I can only empathize." Neal knew he wasn't the right man to offer advice having easily discarded and swapped his own identity for years. But he had to try.

"A name is only a way to address someone. Your character defines your nature; the person you really are."

"The Market had the right to give me any name they wished," said Peter, as he rubbed his forehead. 'Peter' is the name I've answered to all my life and became what I hold as my own." He paused. "But a family name is usually handed down along a patrimonial line. It's the reality of your essence at the deepest level… signifying you belong somewhere. At some point in time, you had a family, a posterity to cherish or reject."

Peter smiled sadly. "The absence of a surname propagates denial of your humanity; the destruction of any future. I thought if I ever had the opportunity to take a surname it would be one of my own choosing." He didn't tell Neal he had considered adopting Mitchell as his last name. Though not culturally popular, he would be proud to share his wife's identity. "Do I even want to know," he continued, "the name of birth parents forced to reject their 'freak of nature' offspring? They must have been grateful to hand me over to the Market."

Neal stiffened, shaking his head, but if Peter noticed he made no sign.

"Oh I know they had no choice, Neal. It wouldn't be fair to hold animosity, but that doesn't change the fact that in their eyes, I was a nonperson. Quickly rejected and forgotten."

"You don't know that," Neal answered softly, reaching out to touch Peter's arm.

"No, I don't… and never will." Peter withdrew his arm, rising suddenly from his chair, his eyes moist. Striding into the kitchen, he looked back, motioning Neal to join him. "What is this culinary delight you were anxious to show me?"

Neal knew the moment for talk was over. Anticipating Peter might broach the subject again, when he felt comfortable, he stood up and sadly trailed after his friend.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

"What do you think, Elizabeth?" asked Mozzie with a slight frown.

"It's perfect," she answered, taking a sip from her tea cup. "Brewing loose leaf green tea isn't as difficult to master as I thought."

"Remember, bottled spring water is one of the key aspects for a positive outcome; soft water with few minerals. No hard, tap or distilled water and, of course, you must ascertain the right temperature."

"Follow the proper tea to water ratio," Elizabeth began inciting, "and the time it takes to infuse is dependent on the type of tea you're brewing."

"Would you like to practice pouring the tea in my cup?" asked her unconventional instructor. "Slowly and gently," he pantomimed, "that's right. Ah… no shaking or swirling the teapot."

Elizabeth laughed, sitting down close to the small man. "Thank you, Mozzie. This has been a delightful afternoon. And I adore the beautiful Japanese kyusu and delicate tea cups you bought me." She gave him a searching look. "You know that wasn't necessary?"

Mozzie opened his eyes wide in mock amazement. "No one should be without the proper teapot. And western teacups are really not suitable for sencha or kamairicha. My gift was just an essential component of the tutelage."

"I remember my mom always saying that as far as she was concerned, tea can fix everything," said Elizabeth, her vivid blue eyes expressing a quiet sadness. "If only that were true," she added wistfully.

"Things will work out. You have friends on your side now."

Elizabeth kissed the top of Mozzie's bald head. "The antidote for fifty enemies is one friend."

"Aristotle," he answered, feeling a protective streak within him that he would never have guessed existed. You must never give up; 'for even rivers someday wash dams away.' "

"Would you like more tea?" asked his pupil.

"Of course. Let's practice the technique again," he said. "You'll have a faultless presentation for Peter."


End file.
